


Raising the Stakes

by lamellae



Category: Dance Gavin Dance (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29552670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamellae/pseuds/lamellae
Summary: Jon really starts to wonder if he's cut out for his day job. 🥁(I'm telling myself that if I post more of my WIPs, I'll finish them eventually. May get explicit in later chapters.)
Relationships: Jon Mess/Tilian Pearson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Raising the Stakes

Jon found Tilian huddled on the floor of the bathroom, knees drawn up to his chest, hood pulled over his face. Pale, shaking hands held the hood down, obscuring his face. Jon pulled the door shut behind him, locking it then stepping in front of Tilian. He grimaced.

"Uh, hey."

Tilian obliged to not respond.

Jon looked away for a moment, uncomfortable. The apparent situation was unfortunately familiar to him.

"If you're on something, just tell me. I'm used to this happening."

Jon could see Tilian quickly shaking his head. He pushed the hood back an inch or two, revealing his shocking pallor. His eyes met Jon's, and Jon wasn't sure if it was the shitty bathroom lighting or his own brain incorrectly filling in the hues, but the usually warm, deep tones of the other man's eyes and skin seemed off and unsettlingly wrong. Jon was suddenly quite sure Tilian was indeed overdosing, and pulled out his phone. He swallowed the incoming wave of anxiety at the prospect of subsequent events.

At the appearance of the device, Tilian quickly leapt up with bizarre speed and grabbed Jon's wrist, holding it back down. Jon almost lost his balance at the movement, stumbling back into the door of the stall. It rattled at the impact, echoing against the smooth bathroom walls.

"Hold on," Tilian muttered briskly, glaring down Jon again with those cold eyes, "just gimme a second."

It was now difficult for Jon to take in a full breath, as he was certain Tilian was either going to get violent and/or straight-up crazy on him in a drug-induced haze, as the larger man's obvious target of frustration.

He braced himself, finally able to speak: "H-hey, back off. I'm not trying to hurt you, I just wanna help--"

"You  _ are _ going to help me," Tilian interrupted, looking spontaneously clear-eyed, yet still wary and inconspicuous. "But first I'm going to tell you something unbelievable." He let go of Jon's wrist, realizing the strength of his grip. "And you're going to have to believe me, because after that I'm going to ask you to do something even more unbelievable." He glowered directly down at Jon, expectant of response, apparently not realizing he had closed the gap between the two in the cramped stall space.

Jon furrowed his brow, grimacing. His heart was still racing, but he attempted to calm himself down with slow breaths. Tilian seemed very serious, so Jon tried to take him seriously, though his shaky smile belied his nervousness. "You're not selling your case well here." He attempted to make more room between them, only succeeding in noisily knocking against the loose stall door again. Tilian noticed the discomfort and stepped back a pace.

"Sorry," Tilian replied, keeping his voice low. There was a hint of a laugh in his apology. "Honestly, I'm just a little desperate."

"Again, you're just making it sound even worse."

Tilian tilted his head to the side, gritting his teeth. Jon was unsure how to interpret the reaction. Tilian opened his mouth wordlessly before closing it again, then finding his words. "Not like that."

"Like what, then? You need a fix? What's going on?" Jon was eyeing the floor, looking for paraphernalia and general evidence.

"No, shut up. Listen." Tilian was clearly getting annoyed, though Jon wasn't sure at whom.

"Fine. What?" Jon dropped the smile.

Tilian again grabbed at Jon's hand, much gentler this time, holding it delicately palm-up, thumbs grazing Jon's fingers. Jon could feel his bandmate's hands shaking, the struggle of expressing his current problem reverberating through his core.

"I need blood right now, or I'm probably gonna die," he finally admitted, squeezing Jon's hand.

"Uh," Jon blinked, still processing. "Well, um, alright. To drink?" Jon decided then that Tilian definitely  _ was _ extremely medicated to the point of delusion, but it didn't seem actually life-threatening, even with Tilian's remark. It was probably safer to gain some trust and still get some help, like a medical professional, eventually, rather than argue.

"Yes. Okay?" Tilian breathed, apparently satisfied with Jon's reaction. "Again, just trust me." He kept trying to maintain eye contact, but Jon's natural resistance to it made it difficult.

"Okay," Jon nodded, slowly. Tilian's hands indeed felt as cold as they looked, seeming almost like stone against Jon's warm, sweaty hands.

Tilian nodded back. "Okay. Then, if you're okay with it," Tilian breathed in, then out, "is it okay if I drink your blood? Just a little. I'll explain."

Jon bit his lip trying to keep his flummoxed reaction off his face. Tilian's worried expression indicated he was doing poorly of that, however.

"Really?" was all Jon could muster, incredulous.

"I'm not joking at all."

Jon paused, looking over Tilian's face for any hint of a joke.

"Are you gonna bite me?"

Tilian shook his head.

"I have a knife. I can just nick you and dab a little off. Like I said, just a little."

Jon felt his whole body tense up. "You have a knife? Jesus christ."

Tilian rapidly shook his head. "It's not-- it's just-- hold on," he mumbled, reaching around for his back pocket. He produced a small Swiss Army knife, flicking open the blade. Light glinted off the flat edge from the halogen above. "Just a little one. I used the bottle opener on it for you yesterday, remember?"

"You cut people with that?"

"Well, you'd be the first."

"What the fuck?"

"I'm going to fucking die. You wanna play the show?"

"Jesus," Jon rubbed at his face with his free hand. "Uh, god, fine. Just, if you kill me, they'll know it was you."

Tilian appeared grateful, his body relaxing.

"I promise not to kill you. At least not on purpose."

"Again, you could try harder convincing me otherwise."

Tilian rolled his eyes. He unlocked the stall door, holding Jon back by his hand so as to prevent his fall. He pulled the smaller man over to the sink, washing his hands, then running water and soap over a small portion of Jon's forearm. He then made sure to clean the knife as well, wiping it dry on his pants. He brought the knife to Jon's arm, cold metal against warm skin.

He met Jon's eyes, mouth drawn tight.

"Ready?"

Jon grunted in response, already feeling woozy at the circumstances.

"Sorry if it hurts," Tilian muttered, pressing the knife into the crook of Jon's elbow. Jon winced at the sensation, but it truly didn't hurt him much. He'd punched straight through a window before, after all. Amongst other maladies.

Soft flesh easily gave way, a bead of red blood welling up on the surface. Jon watched Tilian's careful movements with suspicion and curiosity, heart rate increasing with each unpredictable moment. However, Tilian didn't appear reckless, instead showing a degree of confident precision; he cut directly into a vein with apparent expertise, creating a consistent flow from such a small laceration.

Jon fully expected Tilian to lower his head to the site and begin the procedure per Jon's culturally-osmosized understanding of vampirism. However, the latter man instead ripped a small paper towel from a dispenser on the wall, folding it deliberately, then held it below the flow, saturating the towel. Jon marveled at Tilian's actions; he usually wasn't this dexterous at any given task. Jon supposed he really must have been as desperate yet truthful as he appeared.

A heavy minute passed of just this. Tilian then grabbed another paper towel, folding it once more, then held it to Jon's arm at the cut.

"Pressure," was all Tilian could mumble out before removing his hand. Jon followed the directions, acting accordingly. He then watched as Tilian whumped back down onto the floor, back to the wall. To Jon's amazement, he then started chewing on the blood-soaked folded towel, sighing in relief.

Jon organized all the questions that were now swimming around his head, picking what seemed to be the most relevant one. He held the dry towel to his arm tightly.

"What are you doing?"

Tilian flicked his gaze up at him. Jon's heart skipped a beat at how quickly Tilian went from looking ill to now looking just a bit tired. Gray turned to cerulean, white to his normal tan. If it wasn't for the dark red of Jon's blood gathering at the creases of his lips, one unawares wouldn't find anything amiss about his appearance.

"If I bit you, I'd hurt you," Tilian replied nonchalantly, just a bit muffled through the wet paper. "When you're as hungry as I was, it's easy to get out of hand." A smirk grew on his face at Jon's expression of befuddlement.

"Okay. Uh," Jon continued, unsure of what next to prioritize in terms of discovery. "How did you get like this?"

"Right now, or?"

"Yeah."

Tilian nodded bashfully.

"Usually I have some on me, but it went bad--"

"Some what? Blood?" Jon felt a pit growing in his gut.

"Well, yeah," Tilian mumbled, running his hand through his hair reflexively. "Like, not from a person."

"Uh."

Jon connected the dots he presumed made sense.

"It just went bad. I tried to have at least a little to get by, 'cause I knew it was gonna be a while until I got more, but I got sick--"

"I thought you were just hammered?"

"I fuckin' wish. No, it was so fucking gross. It's way worse going up than down."

Jon's stomach turned at the words. "Didn't need to hear that."

"Sorry," Tilian frowned. "Anyway, I didn't think I would get that bad that fast."

"Wow." Jon winced at his complete inability to converse at the moment.

"I'm just glad it was you that came in. I don't think anyone else would do that for me." He smiled wide in gratitude.

Tilian then stood, stepping over to the trash to spit out the paper towel, apparently spent.

"I, uh," Jon replied after a beat. "Yeah, glad to, help?"

Tilian nodded.

"Thanks man. Really. I'll tell you more after the show."

"Yeah."

Tilian looked Jon over, appearing concerned.

"You okay?"

Jon realized he was pressing so hard on his arm that it hurt. Peeling away the towel showed that the flow had dried, leaving a small crust of blood at the puncture site.

"Guess so."

Tilian grinned, moving past Jon towards the door out of the bathroom.

"Ready to head out?"

Jon nodded sloppily. He glanced in the floor-to-ceiling mirror at his side, past the sink, taking in the room in opposite. All the usual washroom inanimates looked well and normal, still and orderly. The only two reflections in movement, his and Tilian's, caught his eye. He wasn't sure what he expected, but he felt his blood run cold at the sight of both his and Tilian's reflection peering directly back at him. He turned back to Tilian, in the flesh, who was smiling warmly down at Jon, in stark contrast to his mirrored doppelgänger.

Jon breathed in, then out.

"Sure."

**Author's Note:**

> Does anybody else remember that Fright Ranger song?


End file.
